Humbug
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Oneshot for Christimas. Set post-finale. Because Christmas doesn't always go the way Blair (or Henry) intended it to.


Wind whips her hair; dark locks untamed by her beret trailing and dancing behind her as she glides through the crowds. Her grace and poise captures the attention of those wobbling on the silver blades of borrowed skates, and young girls visiting from the Midwest attempt to follow her example by smoothing out their coats and running their fingers through their hair. Yet it is difficult to copy her smile or emulate her happiness as her gaze moves along the edge of the rink, as her eyes brighten at the sight of the little boy perched on the railing.

Recognition flickers across his face rewarding her with a wide, gummy smile when she slides into a stop in front of him. Hand covered in tiny mittens reach out to pat her face – squeals turning into laughter when she pretends to nibble on his fingers – before arms rise in a demand to be picked up and held. And she relents for a moment scooping him into her arms and peppering his face with kisses while her companions come to a slow, careful stop beside her.

"Where's your hat, Henry? Did you lose it?"

The question is cooed in Roman's heavily accented voice as he reaches out to tickle Henry's belly and chin through the thick padding of his coat. His gaze darts from the little boy's thick head of brown hair to the railing and finally over the lip to the stroller parked just beside it, and he leans over the railing – legs wobbling on silver blades – to pluck the discarded red and white hat from where it lies abandoned in the middle of the empty stroller.

"Here it is," Roman announces as he arranges the hat atop of Henry's head. The polyester scratches against his head; the white ball falls in front of his gaze to bounce against his nose. And the smile on Henry's face falls as his small head twists side to side, as he searches out his grandmother and leans out in a demand to be held by the woman who removed the hat in the first place because his mother may appease her own daddy, but Eleanor won't put up with such a fashion faux pas.

"Ba," Henry gurgles in distress as the fuzzy, white ball tickles his skin.

But his grandfather intercedes reaching out to scoop Henry into his arms, and Harold is quick to bounce the little boy in his arms, to try and soothe his unhappiness just as he did for his own little girl when she was upset. Roman, for his part, tries to reach into the stroller once more to grab one of the large candy canes for Henry to play with, but a lack of coordinate combined with thin, silver blades cause him to stumble, to nearly go crashing to the ground.

Yet Blair reaches out to catch him wrapping her hand around his arm, pushing her body into his in order to keep him upright on his feet. A smile of relief passing over his lips as he squeezes her hand with eyes that slide to meet those of Harold, and there is no need to mask his suspicion this time around as he mutters his thanks in French.

"Perhaps we should head home?"

The question is asked as Eleanor holds out her hands and gathers the little boy throwing himself into her embrace in her arms; the question is agreed to by the three standing on the ice. Harold and Blair each take a place on either side of Roman and loop their arms through his in order to help him off the ice; his legs still wobbling by the time they reach where Eleanor waits with Henry in her arms.

A very happy, smiley Henry sans hat who babbles in his grandmother's arms as his pats her cheeks and who doesn't mind being transferred into his mother's arms so that Eleanor may straighten her cape, adjust her hat, smooth away all signs of her grandson's eager affection. A very happy, smiley Henry who refuses to be placed in the stroller and instead peeks over his mother's shoulder at his grandfather and Roman – the two men making funny faces to garner laughs – during the walk past the penthouse where his mother grew up towards the home where he will grow up.

The home that is decked in garlands of holly and filled with the smells of a traditional Christmas dinner; the home that contains red bows and a large tree with twinkling lights he watches with wide eyes every time it comes in sight. And it takes the sound of his father's voice to break his concentration after his mother carries him into the living room and his eyes laid on the brightly, colorfully decorated trees and packages.

His head immediately snaps to the right, his smile widens, and his legs begin to kick furiously against his mother's chest as he nearly throws himself towards his father. Unintelligible words babbling forth as his father saunters into the room, wraps his arm around Blair's waist, and presses a kiss against the temple of Henry's head.

"Charles, aren't you going to offer me something to drink?" Eleanor interjects before her son-in-law can properly greet his wife as she peels off her gloves and prepares to take a seat on one of the blue couches in the living room. But before Blair as inquire if her mother wants sparkling or stilled, Chuck releases his grip on her waist and moves across the room to hand Eleanor the glass of scotch he prepared in anticipation of her arrival.

"Here you are, Ms. Waldorf."

"Eleanor, and thank you, Charles," Eleanor replies before knocking back the amber contents of the glass much to the surprise of her daughter. "Skating was always Harold and Blair's activity for a reason."

"There's my grandson," an excited voice booms from the dining room. Apron still fashioned about his waist due to his role as taste tester for the party, Cyrus moves into the living room and gathers Henry into his arms with a tap on the little boy's noise and a tight squeeze. The later repeated once more with the announcement that it was simply not enough.

"The food for tonight's party is delicious. We might end up with—"

"Not enough?" Blair suggests with a smile that Cyrus rewards with a nod of his head and a twinkle in his eye. "Cyrus, Mother, if you wouldn't mind watching Henry, Chuck and I need to go change for the party."

The necessity of Chuck's assistance is questionable given the way his tie is perfectly knotted and nary a hair is out of place, but Blair – thankful that her daddy and Roman have already gone upstairs to change – wraps her hand around Chuck's and pulls him towards the stairs before her mother or Cyrus can question them. Leads him up the flight of stairs not to their bedroom but to the small room on the fourth floor – the one with the masculine wood paneling complimented by the Queen Anne style couch with its soft velvet covering and intricately carved detailing along the back.

"I want to show you something," she informs him as she pushes him down onto the sofa and stands before him.

Her pure white beret is tossed onto his lap; his hands moving to fondle the soft wool as she shrugs off her coat. And no words pass between them as she places her foot on the edge of the couch beside his leg, as his hand moves involuntarily to touch the inside of her thigh over the thick fabric of her tights. Only the deep exhale of air as his hand slides up and down her thigh while her fingers trail against the smooth skin of his cheek. A slow and steady stroke of her hand with eyes that never move, never blink, never break her hold on his gaze until she feels the shudder of anticipation trail though his body with the way his Adam's apple bobs and the muscles of his cheek twitch under her fingers.

The shudder of anticipation that serves as her cue to pull herself away, to allow her skirt to fall back down over her stockings and her hand to fall back down to her side so that he is left with not part of her touching him. A glimmer of disappointment flickering across his face when she moves out of his gaze towards the corner of the room; a glimmer of mischievousness flickering across hers when she sweeps her gaze back of her shoulder and smiles at him.

The white sheet covering her Christmas present to him is removed with a single flick of her wrist, and she moves her hand out to stroke the smooth wood of this antique. To allow the memories of how they developed their mutual love of burlesque, of all things nineteen-twenties to rush to the forefront of her mind, to bring a smile to her lips as she lifts the heavy wooden lid until the hinge pops into place. Pre-wound because she comes prepared, she expertly moves the needle onto the record as the previous owner – an elderly woman saddened to sell the artifact but pleased with the new owner's love for the history of the invention – taught her.

Smooth, soulful blues sung by the nineteen-twenties' Empress of the Blues fills the room; a departure from the songs normally employed by the club where he first saw the real her, where she first allowed someone to see the real her, but true to the gift and the timing of the year because Christmas comes only once a year and to her it does, in fact, bring good cheer.

"You bought me a Victrola," he states softly as he wraps his arms around her waist, and she turns her head just enough so that her brown hair sweeps across her back and exposes the skin of her neck to his lips. Just enough so that she can turn and press her lips to skin just to the left of his eye as she sways her body back and forth against his.

"We both wish we were living in Paris in the nineteen-twenties," she replies softly.

"No," he informs her as he spins her around in his arms, as her arms move to loop around his neck so they can continue dancing. "I'd much rather live the life I have with you now than anything else."

The words are ghosted across her lips because he angles his head, because he hovers for just a moment before crashing his lips onto hers. A quick movement that causes her hand to move to his cheek, her fingers to stroke softly against his skin as his tongue swipes against her bottom lip in a request to deep the kiss. A request that only serves to tease her just as she teased him because he smiles when her head falls forward to follow his lips after he pulls, because he laughs at the annoyed look that flickers across her face over the way he teases her.

"Merry Christmas, Blair," he tells her over the sound of the music, but she pushes out his embrace because he gives as good as he gets – maybe even more so – and she hates it.

Hates the way he winds her up so tightly with just one kiss; hates the way she so rarely gets to have the upper hand when it comes to their games. And this time she decides to let him simmer, decides to use her exit as punishment for misdeeds he won't be able to correct until her family and their son are snug in their beds dreaming of Christmas morning as she stalks to the door and out of the room.

"Bah, humbug!"


End file.
